


Despair In Your Veins

by IcyPanther



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Coran Whump, Gen, Hurt Coran (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, Protective Coran (Voltron), Protective Lance (Voltron), Whump, Whump Fic Bingo, Witholding medical treatment, why is that not a tag?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 13:04:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16198115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IcyPanther/pseuds/IcyPanther
Summary: Being a Paladin of Voltron offers certain allowances and opportunities that the average person is not privy to. And in this case, not being a Paladin has consequences. Fatal ones. / Coran and Lance are captured and Coran is poisoned. And the antidote… well, it’s for Paladins only.





	Despair In Your Veins

**Author's Note:**

> **Timeline notes:** Not applicable  
>  **Warning notes:** None  
>  **Additional notes:** For Tumblr follower kiriban event with prompt: Withholding medical treatment? I can see a cute/ angst moment where coran is hurt and captured. they don’t care if he dies because he’s not a paladin so the captures deny him any help! Maybe lance is there and tried his best to help?

“Hey!” Lance rattled the bars, the sound echoing in the silent prison. “I know you can hear me!”

No one responded.

“Hey!”

Lance’s sharp rattle turned softer.

His head bowed, pressing against the bars.

“Please,” he whispered, voice a rasp.

He knew they had heard that too.

They still didn’t come.

Lance swallowed down the frustrated, desperate sob.

It had been three days.

Three days of silence, Lance only knowing they hadn’t been abandoned thanks to the single cup of water and bowl of something that might be considered food goo’s even more disgusting relative that were delivered by a floating tray once a day.

And as thirsty as he was he had barely had more than a few sips of the small offering.

Because...

Because Coran needed it more.

Lance turned away from the front of the cell and made his way back to where the older Altean was lying on the floor, head propped on Lance’s jacket and hands pillowed on his stomach over the small blanket made of Coran’s shirt.

Coran’s face was pale, eyes closed and breath coming in shallow pants, making the black lines creeping up his neck stand out with every gasped inhale.

Coran needed help.

Help that no matter what Lance did, how much he screamed and begged, would not come.

Coran was going to die.

Lance sank down next to him, hands clenched on his knees, digging into his jeans.

He didn’t know what to do.

He and Coran had been running errands when they’d been attacked. Lance hadn’t known who the attackers were as they had worn masks and spoken a language that did not translate as it was all hisses and clacking noises, but they’d been going for him, as the word ‘Paladin’ had been uttered.

Coran must have heard that too, or maybe he even understood them, because he’d yelled at Lance to “cover his neck” and gone to intercept one of the assailants.

Lance had no idea if that was an Altean phrase for ‘duck’ but he’d realized it was literal warning when a moment later a dart had pierced Coran’s.

He collapsed a moment later.

Lance didn’t quite remember what happened then. He wasn’t armed with his bayard but he wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

He wouldn’t leave Coran behind.

He’d swung out with the grocery bag to make a perimeter and then chucked the money bag he’d been holding at another and sent them down with the perfect headshot, doing all he could to keep a hand in front of his neck.

It hadn’t mattered.

A dart had pierced his arm instead, going right through the jacket.

He’d woken up in the cell.

Whatever he’d been hit with was _not_ the same thing Coran had, as other than a headache Lance had been fine.

Coran was not.

He’d still been unconscious and had woken up maybe ten times since they’d been here and only for a few minutes each, clearly in pain. He’d breathlessly explained in his moments of consciousness that those aliens, based upon their speech, were Vaeeil, a race of hunters who worked for the Galra. They specialized in poisons.

They didn’t take prisoners. Only bounties.

Coran would be worthless to them.

He’d given a breathless laugh when Lance had railed against such a term.

It explained why there was only one serving of food and drink, why no medical help had been sent. They didn’t care if Coran died.

He’d likely only been brought along as insurance, Coran had said, face tight with pain, until the trade with the Galra could be agreed upon to keep Lance from acting out. He’d urged Lance to leave him, to do whatever it took for him to escape.

Lance had told him to shut up, the effect lost as he’d been crying and clutching at Coran’s arm.

He would not lose Coran.

He would _never_ abandon him.

But Coran…

Coran might leave him still.

He was only still alive as he’d been in the process of trying to alter his body composition to that of the Vaeeil’s blood, which was immune to their own poisons.

He had not finished before he’d been shot.

Coran estimated earlier that day when he’d awoken and Lance had forced him to eat (he needed to keep up his strength, Lance insisted, as well as the fact the one time he’d tried to eat it he’d thrown it up but if anyone had an iron stomach it was Coran) he had maybe a quintant left before the poison infected his heart and shut it down.

It had been nearly half of that day now and Lance was no closer to escaping with Coran than he had been when they’d first been captured.

He swallowed and carefully reached forward, pulling open Coran’s jacket.

The black line tracing the main path to Coran’s heart was further along, not even a hand’s width away from the organ.

It wouldn’t be long now.

Coran shuddered and his eyes moved beneath closed lids.

Lance made a shushing sound beneath his breath, closing up the jacket on the sight as though that could make it go away.

A moment later Coran’s jewel eyes were blinking open, hazy with pain and exhaustion, but they focused sure enough on Lance after a few moments.

“Ah, Lance, lad,” Coran swallowed thickly, throat bobbing and wincing at the action.

“Water?” Lance interpreted as Coran licked dry lips beneath his moustache. “Here, let me.”

It scared Lance with how familiar it had become to slide an arm beneath Coran’s shoulders and shift him to rest slightly against Lance’s legs and hold him there as his other hand guided the cup of water to Coran’s lips.

Coran had lost all strength to move on his own besides the shudders early on in day two and spent the long days just lying there, chest shallowly rising.

Lance had never seen Coran so… so lifeless.

He’d shushed Coran from talking much after, pleading for him to save his strength.

Save it for what Lance had no idea.

“Much thanks,” Coran murmured after Lance pulled the nearly empty cup away.

His eyes were already slipping closed again and his head turned, forehead bumping against Lance’s chest.

It was hot with fever, but a dry heat.

Lance felt his own throat close up and he swallowed heavily, bringing his other hand up to clutch at Coran’s jacket.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, even though Coran had told him the first hundred or so times no apology was needed. Lance couldn’t help it though. It was because of him Coran had been shot, had been thrown into this cell.

Was going to die.

And he could do _nothing._

He’d demanded, _begged,_ for the Vaeeil to help Coran. He’d even offered to go quietly, to offer no resistance to the Galra even as his stomach churned and Coran had quietly, desperately begged him not to make such a promise.

It hadn’t mattered. They had not come.

If only it had been he who had been poisoned the way Coran had. Lance bowed his head, eyes tracking the black lines on Coran’s neck that were getting thicker and more pronounced as the poison took over. If he’d been faster, had been able to protect Coran as a Paladin should have, as he’d done so so many months ago in the explosion, then he’d have taken that dart and been hit with the lethal poison. Then the aliens would have had to give him the antid—

Lance froze.

He repeated his last words.

“Coran,” he breathed, and there was a note of urgency in the tone that had the Altean’s eyes cracking open again with a little mumble.

“Coran,” he repeated. “If… if a human were to be poisoned how much time would they have before…?”

Coran’s eyes opened fully and there was a sharpness returned to the jewel shades.

“No,” came the rasp. “Absolutely n-not.”

Lance shook his head. “How much time?” he pressed. “They’d _have_ to come, Coran. I… I can _save_ you.”

He could overpower the alien when they hurried to the cell with the antidote for Lance, as they couldn’t lose him, not now. The Galra would want him alive, he felt confident about that.

“No,” Coran rasped again. “Lance, lad…” he coughed and Lance gently shifted him higher up and rubbed at Coran’s trembling back. “You _can’t,”_ Coran pushed out. “Your body… you cannot.”

“How much time?”

Even a couple minutes ought to be enough and he’d inject it in his arm or something where it wasn’t quite so close to his heart and—

“One dobash. M-max.”

Lance blinked.

What?

That… that wasn’t right, that couldn’t be right.

It wasn’t enough time.

Coran’s gaze turned soft. “It is all right.”

“It’s _not,”_ Lance’s voice cracked.

Lance didn’t realize he was crying until Coran reached a shaking hand up and brushed a tear away.

“It is all right, dear boy,” Coran murmured.

Lance didn’t bother that with a response, only pressing his other hand up against Coran’s and holding it to his cheek.

He refused to accept this. There had to be a way.

His insane plan had been sound in theory, minus the whole time issue.

But..

But what if he…

Pretended?

His breath hitched with hope.

Lance considered himself a pretty good actor. He could pretend to poison himself, make the aliens think he was in danger of dying.

Then when they came in he could surprise them, overpower them, and give the antidote to Coran.

His hand tightened in the back of Coran’s jacket.

Could he do it?

He’d have no weapons, he was shaky from the three days without food and little water.

But…

He had to.

Coran had no other choice.

The team had not come yet and he couldn’t count on them to do so before Coran died. Before he was… traded. He tried not to think too hard on that.

It was up to him.

He nodded.

He could do this.

And…

And if it didn’t work…

Then…

He shook his head. It was going to work. He wouldn’t accept another outcome.

He carefully lowered Coran back down to the floor, who offered no protest as his eyes had slipped closed again, and turned his attention to the empty bowl the food goo equivalent had been it.

It was glass.

A grin sharpened his face.

Perfect.

Lance shifted over to it and then, making sure he was away from where the ricochet could hit Coran, _slammed_ it down with all his might.

It shattered.

Coran startled at the noise. His eyes widened as Lance came back over to him, the largest, edged piece he could find clutched in his hand and a second, smaller piece squirreled away out of sight underneath his left armsleeve that he was very, very carefully trying to keep flat and not cut into his skin.

Not yet.

“Lance,” he breathed. “No, lad.”

“It’s going to be okay,” Lance assured him, as he reopened Coran’s jacket and looked for a suitable vein for his purposes, moving towards the thick, black one just below his right clavicle. “I promise.”

He prayed it was a promise he could keep.

Ocean eyes met jewel tones and he tried to convey all he could in that shared gaze.

Coran gave the barest inclination of his head.

Lance worried his lip as he lowered his improvised knife. “This… this might hurt a bit.”

“Do it,” Coran whispered. “But Lance, my boy, please. Please be careful.”

They both knew Coran was not referring to his own safety.

Lance took a steadying breath.

And then _sliced_ into Coran’s skin directly over the sick looking black line.

Coran let out a breathless shout, body jerking at the incision. Lance braced him as best he could with his right hand as he dragged his piece of glass along, hating the noise he pulled from Coran at the ministration.

He had to though.

He had to.

He was going to save him.

Lance lifted his blade up a moment later. There was fresh bright red Altean blood that contained a hidden danger that they both knew would be almost immediately fatal to Lance.

Go time.

Lance forced himself to get up from Coran’s side and walked to the middle of the cell where he knew the camera could see him, the blinking light having given it away on their first day.

“Hey!” he called, raising his bloodied shard in a trembling hand that was not faked at all. “You want me alive?” He licked his lips. “Better… better hurry.”

Lance brought the improvised knife down to hover over his left arm, blood dripping ominously from the blade.

He swallowed.

And pushed down.

The piece of glass hidden beneath his sleeve sank into his skin.

Lance gasped at the sudden, sharp pain and dropped his bloodied piece of poisoned glass to the floor, where it shattered into smaller pieces.

He staggered, bringing his right hand to clutch about his left forearm, where blood was already welling up and staining the shirtsleeve, hiding the fact that the fabric was not actually cut.

He dropped heavily to his knees and then to his side, curling up to hide his actions as he pulled the now bloodied shard from his sleeve — _Dios,_ it _hurt_ — and clutched it in his hand.

And he waited.

And waited.

And hurried footsteps sounded a moment later.

It had worked.

 _Gracias a Dios,_ it had actually worked.

The door of the cell rattled on its hinges as it was forced open and the single pair of footsteps entered the cell, crouching down next to Lance.

He swallowed thickly.

He couldn’t afford to hold back now.

And as a hand descended on his shoulder, going to roll him onto his back, Lance struck.

He flung his hand up with the glass shard, slicing it across the alien’s masked face.

It screamed, hands flying up, and Lance _moved._

He was on the ground one second and the next on his feet, delivering the strongest roundhouse kick he could manage, flinging the alien across the cell and into the wall.

It crumpled and did not move again.

Lance crossed after it, digging his hands into its deep robe pockets and emerging with a syringe filled with an amber colored liquid. It was the only thing there besides a small case containing darts that Lance knew would be useless against the Vaeeil. He pocketed them for safekeeping.

He was at Coran’s side a tick later, syringe shaking in his hand.

This was it. Either this was the antidote or he was injecting Coran with another poison.

He didn’t have time to debate.

He jammed the syringe into Coran’s neck, depressing it in full.

Coran jerked, eyes flying open from where exhaustion had pulled them shut again.

They remained open.

It was like watching magic; the black lines on Coran’s neck lightening with every tick until they disappeared.

Coran blinked.

“Coran,” Lance whispered, “are you…?”

Coran surged to sitting on his own power and Lance found himself wrapped up in a tight hug, Coran’s arms still trembling but they were _strong._

“My boy,” Coran murmured, breath tickling Lance’s neck. “You saved me.”

Lance hiccuped out a sob, returning the hug.

Coran pulled back first, his eyes lighting on Lance’s bleeding arm.

“It’s fine,” Lance assured, the ache mostly a sting now. “Promise. But Coran, we… we still have to…”

They still had to escape and Lance was out of ideas on how to go about doing so. Vaeeil were no doubt going to be arriving any second in droves.

In front of his eyes Coran’s skin rippled, going from peach to a rocky textured brown and he _grew,_ his jacket straining at the seams and a few stitches popping along the shoulders.

Lance stared, awed, his mouth dropping as Coran stood, well over eight feet now. He numbly picked up Coran’s shirt and his own jacket.

“Stay behind me,” Coran ordered. He grinned, displaying sharpened teeth behind his still ever present orange moustache. “We’re getting out.”

Lance matched his grin.

And twelve easily dispatched Vaeeil, one commandeered transport ship and a hole blown in the aliens’ base later they did.

**Author's Note:**

> This one got a way from me a bit, which is funny as I struggled with how I wanted it to go for a while. Originally I was going to end it with them still trapped but I wanted a happy ending for my gorgeous man and so here we go. Plus, getting to use those Altean genes for something good and making Coran and Lance a pair of badasses is always a good way to end a fic.
> 
> **Please leave a comment below and give some love to the author! I’d love to hear a favorite part, dialgoue, detail… thanks so much!**


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